Last Resort
by Succi
Summary: "Have I ever told you that you are my favourite pathologist?" Sherlock is behaving strange. Doing drugs for the Magnussen case may have caused him to relapse. And Molly realizes that trying to help a Sherlock who is going through withdrawal is anything but easy. - T because for mentioning of drugs.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This takes place probably a bit before Christmas in HLV.  
Sarah, you've asked for a "drug-confrontation". There you go... ;-) **

**A HUGE thanks to my beta Pipsis, who was a tremendous help. You rock!  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended. I do not make any money of this (unfortunately). All rights belong to their respective owners. Bla, bla, vampire emergency, bla... **

* * *

_Love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night. – Under Pressure, Queen  
_

"You look ravishing tonight, Dr Hooper."  
Molly turned around to the well known deep voice behind her.  
"If I may say so," the man added at seeing the pathologist's somewhat uncomfortable expression. When she remained silent, he took a step towards her, invading her personal space, like he often did. Molly looked up at him – as he was considerably taller than her – contemplating if she should take a step back or not. He was so close… He leaned down and the petite woman stopped breathing. He whispered into her ear, "Have I ever told you that you are my favourite pathologist?"  
It was his hot breath against her cheek that made Molly finally take a step back to put some distance between them and with a stern expression she demanded to know, "Are you drunk?"  
He stood up tall again and answered with mock irritation, "No! What an insulting assumption! And that's just because I paid you a compliment?"  
The pathologist took another step back and sighed annoyed, "No, it's because you are drunk. I can smell the alcohol and you are slightly staggering."  
He tried to put on a – what he thought to be – enticing expression. "And you find me even more irresistible when I'm inhibited."  
Molly arched an eyebrow at him. "Oh, is that so? And how did you deduce that?"  
Suddenly he looked confused. "How did I what?"  
Molly sighed again and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think it would be better if you'd take a cab and go home, Dave."  
From day one the tall surgeon had told her to call him by his first name. So far she had refused to grant him the same privilege. Generally she was on a first-name-basis with all her colleagues, but something within her rebelled against the thought of hearing Dr David Foster call her by her first name. She had not liked him from the start. In her opinion he was a sleazy guy who tried to get every woman into bed. And the way he behaved right now only confirmed it.  
Dave looked affronted by her suggestion, "Going home, now? The party has just started, and...," again he advanced towards her and tried to sound seductive, "… it is better to enjoy and to regret, than to regret that one did not enjoy!."

Molly could not believe his nerve. She was pretty sure she would not enjoy anything with him. She knew why she had not wanted to come here in the first place. But she had refused the previous years, so Mike Stamford more or less forced her to come. Additionally when she had agreed to come to the annual St Bartholomew's fundraiser, she had still been engaged and been looking forward to a night in a nice dress and some dancing with her fiancé in a tux. Now she looked good with her light make-up, her hair cascading over her shoulders in soft curls and a really nice gown she had bought on a whim three years ago, but had never had an occasion to wear it. It was a long gown in salmon with a flaring skirt and an off-the-shoulder neckline. The top was a bodice with an overlay of crystal sprinkled lace and flowers.  
And now she was here alone – that was the price of not being engaged anymore. In a moment of weakness she had considered asking Greg Lestrade if he would accompany her, but she had dismissed the thought immediately. She did not want Greg to get the wrong impression, or even raise any false hope. She knew all too well how it felt when someone was using your feelings for him to get what he wanted. Thus she was standing alone by the bar with a glass of champagne in her hand and had to endure the advances of Dr Womanizer. He was still looking at her expectantly and she desperately tried to think of something to say to put him into his place without being too rude, when her phone went off, signalling an incoming text. She could hardly repress a sigh of relieve when she started to retrieve her mobile from her clutch. Whoever had given her an excuse to turn away from Dave was a saint. She would kiss them as soon as this was over.  
Molly opened her inbox and mentally revered her previous thoughts. _Not a saint and definitely no kiss.  
_**  
Come to Baker Street immediately. SH**

Molly rolled her eyes. Her phone made a noise again.

**Now. SH**

"Charming as usual," she thought and clutched her phone tighter in her hand. She had wished for an excuse to leave the fundraiser, but this...  
"Be careful what you wish for," she mumbled.  
"It is him, isn't it?" Dave's loathing voice reminded her that he was still standing beside her.  
She saw no reason to lie to him, "Yes."  
The surgeon huffed in annoyance, "I don't understand how you can get along with him. He's such an arsehole."  
Her loyalty to Sherlock made her angry and she felt her cheeks getting hot. "You just don't like him, because he made a remark about your 'good relationship' with nurse Nancy while your girlfriend was present."  
"Ex-girlfriend," he growled.  
Molly shrugged in a see-that's-what-I-am-talking-about-kind of way.  
Her phone indicated a new text.

**I am waiting. SH**

Dave nodded towards the device in her hand. "What does he want?"  
"None of your business," Molly snapped and he looked a little taken aback by the sharpness in her tone. But he recovered quickly and was back in Casanova-mode. "Oh, the kitten has claws, who would have thought? Interesting..."  
Molly made a disgusted face and looked at the new message.

**Molly? SH**

The pathologist was in a dilemma: She had the choice between a sleazy, drunk colleague who probably would not let her be until she'd slapped him, or an annoying consulting detective who probably only needed her to hand him a lighter so he could turn on the Bunsen burner. She massaged her temple. A decision between a rock and a hard place...  
Suddenly she could feel Dave's hand on her right arm and a shiver of disgust ran through her. Decision made. She stepped away from her colleague and said with a strong voice, "Goodnight Dave. Don't forget to regret."  
He stared dumbfounded after her as she made her way to the cloakroom. While walking she texted back.

**On my way. MH**

The reply came a second later.

**Took you long enough. SH**

For the thousandth time Molly Hooper asked herself why she always gave in and let him do this to her.

* * *

A/N:  
Under Pressure: Writer(s): Mario Johnson, Freddie Mercury, John Deacon, Brian May, David Bowie, Roger Taylor, Robert van Winkle, Floyd Brown Copyright: Aftershock Music, Emi Music Publishing Ltd., Ice Baby Music, Queen Music Limited, Tintoretto Music, Qpm Music Inc.,

"It is better to enjoy and to regret, than to regret that one did not enjoy!" is a quote from Giovanni Boccaccio's_ Il Decamerone _– I found a few different translations of it in English (since I only know the quote in Italian and German) and just decided to pick the one I liked best ;-)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I know there is this debate if the animal skull on the wall in Baker Street is a bison skull or an antelope skull. Since according to the **_**Sherlock Casebook**_** it's an antelope skull, I'll stick with that. **

**Your comments, alerts etc have made me a very happy woman! Thank you! ;-) **

**Again THANKS to Pipsis who proofread this chapter as well. Her comments were not only helpful, but some even made me smile. **

* * *

It was intolerable, everything was intolerable. Sherlock Holmes paced from the window to the door and back like a caged lion. The more time passed, the more often his eyes drifted towards the antelope skull on the wall. He drew his hands through his hair and tore at the curls. Where was she? What took her so long? He felt cooped up in the flat, but he could not stand the thought of going outside. There were people out there after all. Billy was the only tolerable person at the moment. He was useful: good to hide cigarettes in or use as paperweight, a good listener. He was quiet – he did not think. Why could not more people be like that?  
Sherlock felt hot, but he knew as soon as he would open the window, he would start to shiver. He kicked against John's chair. Why he still considered it to be John's chair he did not know. He might have to admit that it had something to do with sentiment. He groaned and looked at the ceiling. He could draw a face on the ceiling and shoot at it... But his time it would be a sad – no, a grumpy face. Or even better: he could just shoot random holes into the ceiling and try to connect them, seeing if he could come up with some kind of image. Mrs Hudson could not complain: there was no wallpaper on the ceiling.

Suddenly he heard the front door being opened hesitantly. Finally she had arrived. Maybe he should postpone the plan about the new pattern on the ceiling. He heard her climbing the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible in order not to wake Mrs Hudson. There was absolute no reason for that. The landlady had taken her pills and was out for the night. Sherlock doubted that she would have even heard if he had followed through with his plan firing a gun.  
There was a soft knock on the door and then it opened and the head of Molly Hooper appeared. As soon as her gaze landed on him, she fully opened the door, stepped inside and lines of worry formed on her forehead. She closed the door behind her and opened her mouth to say something, but Sherlock beat her to it, "Where were you?" He looked at her as if she had committed some felony.  
The look of worry was still there, but annoyance was the more present tone in her voice, "I have a life outside of Bart's, you know. And as a matter of fact I was quite busy." She wanted to let him know that he was not supposed to take her willingness of coming every time he asked for her for granted.  
Unfortunately it did not have the desired effect, because he huffed. "Yes, you were busy finding a legitimate excuse to leave the St Bart's fundraiser to escape the advances of Dr Dave." He spit the surgeon's name in disgust. Molly did not bother to even ask how he knew. She was used to it by now and knew asking him would only result in him showing off. The pathologist rolled her eyes. "So, what do you need me for? Will it take long enough so that I should take my coat off?"  
He swivelled his eyes around the room, shrugged and started pacing again. "If you want to."  
Molly's expression became a worried one once again. But she took off her coat and put it on the hanger next to his Belstaff. Hers looked so tiny and cheap compared to his.  
She turned her attention back to him again and followed his nervous pacing with her eyes.

"Sherlock?" she asked concerned. He did not stop, but simply ignored her. She took a tentative step towards him and tried again. "Sherlock, what is it?"  
Again he ignored her. He was not so sure anymore if it had been a good idea to text Molly. She was not stupid. She would realize what was going on and from the way she tried to interpret his behaviour this would happen more sooner than later. He did not want to disappoint her – not again. He raked a desperate hand through his hair. This was another sentimental thought. With disgust he realized that they had increased since his return. Maybe this was a symptom too? He needed to get rid of her. But then he would probably give in. And he did not want to give in!

* * *

Molly followed Sherlock's every move as he walked in circles and tore his hair. He was wearing pyjama pants but a white dress shirt – which was peculiar combination. His blue, silk dressing gown was billowing dramatically behind him like a cape as he moved about. There was sweat on his forehead and Molly was pretty sure it was cold sweat. His hands were slightly shaking, and she could see that he had a hard time holding them as still as possible to not let her see it. He was obviously restless, had dark circles under his eyes, and his breath was slightly fitful. He was in distress. Molly put two and two together, and suddenly everything made sense.

"You are going through withdrawal." It was not a question. Ever since the drug test had been positive she had asked herself how he was coping, if he could stop taking drugs just like that. She had barely seen him since then, somehow having the feeling that he was avoiding her on purpose. In the hospital she feared that the morphine would not make it easier for him to keep his hands from drugs again, but they had never broached the subject; until now. And Molly Hooper was determined not to let him off the hook this time.

He stopped in front of the coffee table. "Maybe you should go back to the fundraiser. I'm sure Dr Dave is already missing you." His stare and voice were cold, and she knew all too well that he was trying to get rid of her. But she would have none of it.  
"Where is it?" she asked and started to look around in the small sitting room.  
The consulting detective played dumb. "What do you mean?"  
She put her hands on her hips. "You know exactly what I mean. So, will you give it to me freely, or will I have to take it away from you?"  
"I don't have any," he said coldly, daring her with his stare to contradict her. His eyes narrowed dangerously, and Molly was reminded how high his level of irascibility was at that stage. Still, she was determined to follow through with her plan. She gave him a look and walked over to the table beside the window with a determined stride, putting her clutch down on the coffee table while passing it. Sherlock followed her movements with horror, because she seemed to know exactly where she had to look for it. But he felt paralyzed and could do nothing but stare in disbelieve as she climbed onto the table – looking a bit clumsy in the process, because she had to do it in high heels and hold her gown up – pulled back the right headphone from the antelope skull and retrieved a small plastic bag. She slid off the table, stalked back and came to a halt in front of him. Her eyes burned with reproach when she held the small plastic bag containing the white powder in front of his face. It did not matter that he had almost a foot on her. Molly in a royal tantrum was a force to be reckoned with.  
"Then would you care to explain to me what this is?"  
Sherlock had a hard time believing that she had found his hiding place on the first try. Not even John had found it over the years.  
Instead of answering her question he asked in wonder, "How?"  
Molly let the small package sink and shrugged, "I've asked you once what this thing with the headphones on the antelope was all about. You shrugged and told me it was some kind of last resort."  
Once again the consulting detective was reminded how dangerous Molly Hooper really was: She did see and observe way too much when it came to him. She paid too much attention. He needed to find a way to put an end to this. But some part of him did not want that, and that part was getting bigger day by day.

The petite woman walked over to the kitchen, turned on the faucet and Sherlock heard plastic being torn. When he turned to the source of the noise he saw his last resort going down the drain.  
"What have you done?!" he hollered. His anger flared, and he had no control over its sudden appearance or intensity.  
Molly flinched at the volume of his voice. He was next to her with a few quick, long strides and gripped her wrist that was still holding the now empty plastic bag. She looked at him with doe's eyes, frightened by his sudden outburst, although she tried not to show it. He stood tall, towering over her, trying to make her feel as intimidated as possible.  
"Why did you do that?" his voice low and menacing, as he increased the grip on her hand.  
She tried to keep her voice as even as possible, "Sherlock, you are hurting me."  
He looked at her with callous disregard and loosened his grip only slightly. "You did not need to throw it away. I did not plan on taking it. It has been here for years and I've never used it."  
Molly swallowed to get rid of the lump in her throat. She told herself that there was no need to be afraid of Sherlock. She knew he would not hurt her physically. It was the withdrawal that was making him act like that. So she dared to ask, "Then why do you still have it?"  
She had not expected an answer and she did not get one. Instead he leaned closer to her face and hissed forcefully, "I would not have taken it. I am not weak, do you understand?"  
She looked him deep into the eyes to let him see the truth of her statement, "I know you are not weak, Sherlock. That's why I threw it away. I know you don't need it."  
Something in his eyes shifted and suddenly he dropped her hand as if she had burnt him. He took a step back and averted his gaze.

Molly released a breath she did not know she had been holding and leaned against the kitchen counter. Her knees felt a bit weak. What had been a welcome excuse to leave the fundraiser had turned into a nightmare. Molly was considering if maybe getting drunk with Dr Casanova would not have been the better option. She shook her head to get rid of such disturbing thoughts. She needed to find a way to help this tortured, brilliant man next to her. It was clear that she could not leave him in this state. She knew that it was only a matter of time until the rest of the symptoms of the physical withdrawal would wear off, but the psychical withdrawal was worse. There were good days and there were bad days. And tonight was a bad day. She drew a breath in order to calm herself and get ready for an exhausting night.

* * *

Sherlock leaned against the counter a few feet away from the pathologist. He did not know what had made him use such force on the petite woman. He had not wanted to hurt her, and he felt disgusted at himself for it. He closed his eyes for a moment. He could still feel the cold sweat on his forehead, but his heartbeat had slowed down considerably. He was not feeling so hot anymore too. Maybe the attack was over? Now he could send her away. But he did not want to. He was torn. On the one hand he longed for an uncontaminated solitude; on the other hand he could not stand the thought of being alone and… bored. Being bored was dangerous. And Molly would definitely keep him from being bored. Molly was never boring. She was interesting. He groaned inwardly. He had to stop these kinds of thoughts about the pathologist.  
The voice of said pathologist ended his tormented thoughts, "I'll make some tea."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh how very British: tea, the cure for everything. I wonder why nobody has told rehab about that so far…" That was a good start: sarcasm. Sarcasm was safe, as was anger and being dismissive. He would stick to those until she would leave.

**TBC **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Again thank you all for your alters, kind words, etc. You made me very happy! **

**And of course thank you to Pipsis, who proofread this chapter as well and helped me a lot, although life was trying to get in the way. I really appreciate it! **

* * *

_Love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves. – Under Pressure_

"How could you do that? Start using again!" Molly asked.  
They were sitting opposite each other in the chairs by the fireplace. Molly had put the teapot, two cups and some biscuits on the table between them and poured them some tea and milk. Sherlock did not take sugar, which she found peculiar, since he put sugar (two to be precise) into his coffee. Way too much in her humble opinion. She had told him to sit down, because his restless pacing was making her nervous. He had given her a look and she had been sure he would just ignore her request, but to her surprise he had sat himself down (with a dramatic sigh, of course), throwing the dressing coat behind like a piano player his tailcoat.  
She took a few sips of her tea; Sherlock not touching his at all. She felt the hot liquid running down her throat and calming her nerves. She knew she needed to stay calm – for both of their sakes – and he would not make it easy for her. With the consulting detective hardly anything was ever easy.

As a reaction to Molly's question, Sherlock heaved a sigh, as if trying to explain something to a two year-old, his patience evaporated, "I was not using again! It was all for a case. How often do I have to explain that?"  
The pathologist crossed her arms. "And what about the drug test?"  
Sherlock made a noise that sounded like growling, closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat. In turn Molly leaned forward a bit and stated seriously, "Your work is not worth ruining your life."  
His eyes were still closed when he shot back, "My work is my life. It's all I've got." He did not sound bitter at all and that made Molly's heart ache even more.  
Her voice was all gentleness, "That's not true and you know it."  
He opened his eyes and cocked an eyebrow at her, as if mocking her. "Is that so?"  
Her voice was stern, not leaving any room for argument, "If it were true, you wouldn't have jumped off that building or even bothered coming back."  
He waved his hand dismissively, "You're interpreting way too much into my actions."  
Now it was her turn to cock an eyebrow, "Am I?"  
"Yes. I solely wanted to destroy Moriarty and his network." His voice was as cold as Molly had ever heard it, and he tried to give her a vicious stare. And that was what convinced her it was a lie. She would always see the truth in his eyes.  
"You can't tell me, you did not feel anything when you've talked to John for the last time before the fall."  
"I don't know. I don't know what I should have felt."  
She tried desperately to stare him down, but he smirked in condensation, turned to look at the skull on the mantelpiece and started tapping impatiently with his right foot.

Sherlock was determined to follow through with his plan of getting rid of her, but she was giving him a hard time. She would not surrender easily, he knew that. So he stared at Billy the skull, willing the inanimate object to give him some advice. But now the quality Sherlock usually valued most about his bone-friend, which was his silence, did not come in handy. The holes in the skull where once the eyes had been stared back at the consulting detective as if mocking him. And this was not helping at all! Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Molly watching him intently, the lines of worry furrowing her brow. He knew she was searching her brain for the right thing to say. The thing that would make him come out of his shell. It would not be the first time if she did find it. And he was not sure if he wanted her to.

Molly was perched on the edge of the chair and tried to think of the right thing to say. With Sherlock she often felt like there was no such thing as the right thing, because he always had a comeback and he had the tendency to make her feel stupid. Well, compared to him most people were stupid. But she knew she could do it. She had done it before. Like on the night before the fall. Back then she had managed to find the right words.  
She took a bite of a biscuit and when looking at it, a thought crossed her mind. "When was the last time you've eaten anything?"  
Instead of giving her an answer he got defensive and asked a question of his own. He sounded annoyed. "Why are you doing this?" Slowly he turned his attention away from the skull towards her.  
She was surprised he even had to ask. "Because I care."  
"I don't expect you to care." The words cut through her like a knife. She knew he did not expect anyone to care about him. He tried his best to banish the thought that he had friends who were there for him, who wanted to be there for him.  
The pathologist finished her biscuit and crossed her arms. "Then why did you want me to come in the first place?"  
He ignored her question, shot up from his chair and yelled, "This is just female sentiment-crap!" He almost felt satisfied when she startled.  
Flinching at his loud voice Molly watched Sherlock turn towards the mantelpiece and looking down at the skull again. His hands were gripping the mantelpiece so fiercely that his knuckles had turned white. She drew a slow breath before she tried another course of reasoning to make him understand why she had come.  
"If I would ask you for help would you help me?" she queried calmly.  
"If the case was above a 5...," he told the skull.  
"No case. Just me coming to you in the middle of a rainy night, crying, begging you for help."  
He was still looking at Billy, but Molly could see him rolling his eyes through the mirror. "Must you paint it out so dramatically?"  
She shrugged. "You like drama. So, would you help me?"  
"I don't like it when you cry."  
Silence. A wave of unspoken meaning washed over them.

Sherlock kicked himself mentally. Why had he said that? He had not meant to do that. It had just been a fleeting thought, but not something he had planned on saying – ever. It revealed way too much. Maybe he was lucky and she had not heard him. His voice had been quite low after all... But when he glanced at the mirror to see her reflection, all hope vanished. She stared at him with a shocked expression on her face, her mouth slightly agape, not sure if she had heard him correctly. He could not take it back. He could say something cruel, but something inside him rebelled against it. He figured that it must have been because he felt so tired and exhausted. He pushed himself off the mantelpiece, turned around, took his cup of tea and a biscuit in his hand and walked over to the couch – all the time studiously avoiding her eyes which were intent and watchful. He had managed to settle his face into his protective deadpan expression. He took a sip of the tea and had to admit that it tasted good. When he took a bite from the biscuit he realized that he was indeed hungry, and that he could not answer Molly's earlier question truthfully, because he honestly did not know when he had last eaten something. He drained the tea, ate the rest of the biscuit and let himself fall down onto the couch. He pulled his dressing gown around himself like armour, turned towards the back of the couch (away from her), curled into a ball and closed his eyes. Hopefully she would get the unmistakable message and leave him be.

The moment the words had left Sherlock's mouth, his body suddenly became taut as a bow string, and Molly could see him almost physically retreat. She knew he had not intended to reveal that her crying did affect him. She wanted to tell him that this was okay, that it was only human. But she feared a statement like that would only make it worse. Therefore all she could do was watch him, while he tried his best to ignore her, took his tea and biscuit with him and tried to put as much space as possible between them. Still she had to fight a relieved sigh, when he actually drank his tea and even ate his biscuit. And from the way he devoured it, she was sure it had been some time since he had eaten anything. When he curled into a foetal position on the couch and deliberately turned away from her, she knew that was his way of telling her to leave him alone. The thing was just she had no intention of doing so. He had wanted her to come after all. She still did not know why, but there surely was a reason. There was always a reason where Sherlock Holmes was concerned.  
The pathologist got up, took the teapot and the plate with the biscuits with her and walked over to the human ball on the couch that was the world's only consulting detective. When she filled his cup again and put the plate down onto the table she asked herself if it was possible that his sulking had been even worse when he had been a child. He must have given his parents a really hard time. She shook her head and sat down onto the chair. She let her hands travel over the armrest and was reminded of the last time she had been sitting here: When Sherlock had asked her to solve some crimes with her. She had sat there, had made some notes (it had made her feel better to write everything down) about this poor crying woman whose online boyfriend's emails had suddenly stopped and Sherlock had looked at her when he had said, "And you really thought he was the one, didn't you? The love of your life?" and...  
"I didn't think it was possible, but you're even more annoying than Janine."  
Sherlock's voice brought Molly back from her memories. He was still in the same position, his back towards her, when he continued, "At least she left me alone when I told her to."  
"You did not tell me to," the pathologist retorted to both of their surprise.

That made Sherlock turn around and look at her. She was sitting in the chair, obviously having brought the tea and biscuits with her, looking like she had no intention to leave in the near future. Her stare was level. And he had a sudden flashback of the last time she had been sitting in this very chair; eagerly making notes for the case of the stepfather posing as online boyfriend. She had told him that she thought _case of identity _would have been a great title for the case. He had only berated her that she should not stoop to John's level and give every case a stupid name. (Secretly he had to admit that he liked the title.)  
"Did you even like her at all?" Molly asked interrupting his thoughts and it took Sherlock a second to remember she was talking about Janine. He found her question quite peculiar, because so far it had never occurred to him to like people while using them.  
"What would it help if I did? I needed a way to get close to Magnussen and Janine was the easiest and most efficient one." Facts without feelings. His speciality. Molly's face wore the same expression she had had when she had found out that the drug test had been positive, and all of a sudden Sherlock felt a bit sick. He told himself it was because he was hungry. So he turned to take some biscuits.  
"You could at least say you're sorry, Sherlock."  
Molly's eyes followed him and he sighed dramatically and shrugged, "I could say I'm sorry, but I don't want to lie." Then he swallowed two biscuits at a time.

Molly had seen his human side to know of its existence, but in moments like these it was hard to believe. Although she already knew the answer to her next question, some masochistic part of her still had to clarify it, "So you are not sorry for anything that happened during the Magnussen case? Not for the drugs, not for using Janine, ...," her voice trailed off.  
"I am sorry I got shot. Being held in hospital for so long was a nuisance." He told her as he casually sipped some tea.  
Molly massaged her temples and gently shook her head. She really had thought he had learned something about human nature, about the feelings of other human beings, that he had changed a bit while he had been gone. But now it seemed she had been wrong. She was foolish for thinking things might ever change between them. And the sooner she would accept that, the better it would be for her.  
"I'm glad I came, because now I know it's hopeless," she mumbled, more to herself than to the man sitting across from her on the sofa. Still, said man stopped chewing and his eyes snapped to hers. She saw him swallow and cock his head to the right side, a contemplative expression on his face. She felt herself getting nervous. She hated him and herself that he was still able to do that, after all these years.  
"I'm sorry," he said out of the blue.  
"What?"  
"You've said you wanted me to say I'm sorry. There you go: I'm sorry." He emptied his tea cup, put it down and leaned back again, folding his hands on his lap, like his statement would have settled everything.  
Molly could not believe his nerve. "You can't just say that and then expect everything to go back to normal!"  
He looked at her like she had gone crazy. "Why not? I thought this was the way an apology worked?"  
Molly got up from the chair and threw her hands up in exasperation. "No, and definitely not if you don't mean it!" She raked a hand through her hair in desperation, not caring that it might have ruined her hairstyle. Now it was her turn to pace from the door to the window and back. Her lips were thinned in frustration, absolutely stymied as to how she should proceed. She knew that any attempt to dissuade him from his opinion would be met with anger, invective and accusations. And although she assumed it was useless, she could not help it. She knew she would do what she always did: She would support him. The question was: how? She could see that he was struggling; with himself, with staying clean, with the changes that happened during his absence, ... Molly wanted to comfort him. Take him into her arms, but she knew he wouldn't let her. He had exceeded his daily capacity for allowing himself to need anyone's help. Especially hers.

The consulting detective watched the petite woman pace in his sitting room. She was obviously mad at him, but he could feel that there was something else; something that ran deeper than anger or jealousy. (Even John could have deduced that she had been jealous of Janine and he was still contemplating if he should tell her that he had not slept with the maid of honour. But he did not want to ponder why he felt the need to exculpate himself. It would not change anything, would it?) He could see that she was hurt, but what else? There was always something... Clearly she was having an internal debate about how to proceed. He waited for her to tell him to get lost, like everyone did after some time. (Well, John excluded...) But when she started to walk towards the window for the fourth time and he could see her eyes more clearly than before, he knew.  
"I have disappointed you," he declared.  
She stopped her pacing and crossed her arms defensively. "Great deduction, Sherlock." He was surprised by her sarcasm. Molly was – unlike him - hardly ever sarcastic.  
"I don't want you to be disappointed in me." Molly could not tell if his nonchalance was genuine or smartly contrived. Thus she decided to stick to defensive mode.  
"Well, you should have thought about that before doing drugs again," she said in a polemic tone.  
He snorted a bitter laugh, not knowing what to reply to that. And that was a rare thing. He always had a comeback. Sure he could have told her again that he would not relapse and that he had it under control. But that was only partly true. Additionally she was right: He had never taken into account how his... friends... would feel about him doing drugs for a case. It had never occurred to him that Molly might be disappointed in him or worry about him. But now he saw. The way she was looking at him with defeat in her eyes, trying desperately to only show him her anger and not her pain. How could he have missed it? After all, he made his living looking for clues, searching evidence. And he had missed all the obvious clues. She was worried about him. She really cared, deeply.

He slowly stood up and made his way around the coffee table and the chair towards her. She dropped her eyes in characteristic shyness. For the first time tonight he took the time to really look at her. Of course he had deduced her the moment she had set foot into his flat, and he had known how her evening had gone so far. But he had not granted himself the luxury of taking pleasure in the way the long, elegant dress and the high heels made her look taller and brought out her curves and her slender waist, or the way her brown curls bounced when she turned her head. Was that why he caught her staring at his hair sometimes? Did his curls bounce too when he turned his head? He doubted it; they would be too short.  
"You look nice," he suddenly blurted out.  
She gave a laugh that sounded oddly devoid of humour and looked up from the floor. Her eyes were the colour of hurt anger, tainted by a heart that cared too much.

"I know what you're doing," she said, trying hard not to show too much of her hurt in her voice.  
Sherlock knew his pupils had probably widened in surprise. It was funny, because he sure did not know.  
Molly explained, "You try to disguise your feelings by putting on this inscrutable mask." She made a gesture with her right hand, indicating at his face and it occurred to him how exhausted she really was.  
He stretched his mouth in a smile he did not feel and took a step towards her, invading her personal space. "Look who's talking!" He reached out and gently touched her cheek, not really sure why he felt the need to do so. The touch was only brief and feather-light, but Molly still cherished it despite her anger and could not help but close her eyes for a second.  
He eyed her cautiously, gauging her reaction to his touch. "Somewhere under all this layers of make-up there's you – the real you." He had meant the remark to be playful. But it hadn't quite come out that way.  
His hand sank useless to his side and Molly could only stare at him. A dozen reactions flashed through his eyes in a matter of seconds, colours shifting like a green-blue-grey kaleidoscope.  
Her mouth felt dry, and she struggled to speak the next words, "Wearing a mask makes it easier."  
And suddenly it was there: The same look he had given her when she had told him she did not count. It was this mixture of disbelieve, irritation and wonder that did not seem to fit his face, because Sherlock Holmes was not one to be surprised. But once again the petite pathologist had managed to pull him from his self-imposed isolation and the how of it eluded him.

The intensity of his eyes was startling her, and she saw something that was both wonderful and terrifying to her. Before she knew what was happening, he was kissing her, crushing his lips to hers in a desperate way.  
Molly froze. How dared he to play with her emotions like this? She was about to push him away, when she felt that the huge hand cupping her face was trembling. This small betrayal of his state loosened the hold of her fury. Still, she gently shoved him away from her. And it took all her willpower to do so. But she had to pull back, before they would cross a line that could never be re-drawn.  
Sherlock released his hold on her and stared at her, the pale blue of his eyes darkened to vivid sapphire and his mouth slightly agape. Words were failing him at the moment. They seemed to have deserted her, too. Right when she needed them most. She saw the rejection in his eyes. Molly knew she had only a few moments, before his undecipherable mask would set back in place and he would probably become cold and dismissive.  
"Not like that," she finally said, her eyes beseeching him.  
He took a step away from her. "But you told me I could have you." His voice was a mixture of anger and confusion. Molly closed her eyes and sank her head for a second, licking her lips that were slightly wet from his assault. She struggled to articulate how to explain to him what she herself did not fully understand while feeling ashamed of hearing him repeat her words from so long ago. She cleared her throat and looked back up. He was staring at her, impatiently waiting for her to give him a reason why she had rejected him.  
"Sherlock, you know I'll always be there for you. And you know I want you... I mean... I want to help you... and..." She stopped herself and drew a deep breath to calm her nerves.  
"What I am trying to say is that I know you are going through withdrawal and I will help you with that and I know you feel lonely, but..." She drew another breath. "You are confused right know and if you think you need to manipulate me to stay by your side then you are wrong. I care about you, even if you don't feel... anything." She looked down onto the floor again, because she was sure otherwise he would hear the sound of her heart breaking.

The last word was uttered so low that Sherlock had to strain to hear it. He could see that she was struggling with tears. Did she really think he had kissed her to manipulate her? Well, given his past behaviour he had to admit it was logical conclusion on her part. And she was right: He was confused. She had reduced him to chaos, but it was bliss. He was confused about a lot of things, but he knew he had wanted Molly to come here tonight to get rid of the confusion. How could he tell her that? He was afraid she would see how much he needed her and that she would tell him that she didn't need him at all.  
"I'll never be what you want me to be," he said, surprising them both with his admission. He was shocked how things suddenly became so much more tangible when verbalized.  
Molly smiled in the gentlest way possible. "Did you not hear what I just said, Sherlock?"  
The consulting detective was going through her speech again in his mind. She had said that she cared about him, even if he did not feel... anything. Was that true? But he knew he felt... something. His eyes narrowed when he asked, "Why?"  
Molly shrugged, trying to sound careless. "I don't know... Maybe because you are... passionate."  
That made him chuckle. Describing him as passionate sounded more polite than obsessed. How very Molly...

The pathologist looked confused, clearly not getting what was funny about her statement. Still, she was glad that it had lightened the mood a bit. She bit her lip and stared down onto her shoes, only the tips of them peeking out from under the evening gown. For the hundredth time this evening she felt clueless. She had more or less poured her heart out to him and he said nothing. She had probably scared the hell out of him, overwhelming him with her emotions. She had seen it before: Him going totally still, like being in shock when all the feelings had become too much for him. She wanted to help him out of this complicated situation they had found themselves in. Her heart ached that he seemed to think he was not good enough for her. Sure, he could be a cold bastard at times and he had a lot of baggage, but who did not? She knew all that about him. And against her better judgement it had not driven her away or even helped her to get over him. Sometimes she wished it had.

"You know why I told you to come here tonight?" His voice interrupted her thoughts. He was standing closer to her again, but not as close as before. His face was a guarded mask, but she could see that he had trouble keeping it in place.  
She lifted her head and shook it, not trusting her voice, afraid it would break.  
"I didn't want to use my other last resort."  
"Your other last resort?" she asked, her voice a bit breathless.  
He indicated towards the antelope skull on the wall, although the drugs were not there anymore and it dawned on her.  
She could not hide the disbelief in her tone, "So, I am your… last resort as well?"  
"Of course," he said, striving hard to keep up the pretence of nonchalance.  
Molly gulped. "So you were…"  
He interrupted her, "I was tempted and confused, and I knew you would help me. Because that's what you always do."  
It took Molly a moment to process that. He took another step towards her, and she felt her pulse and breath quicken. A smile tucked on the corners of his lips, a part of him satisfied that he still had that effect on her. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and Molly could not help but realized that it was the tenderest gesture she had ever seen him perform.  
"I am sorry." It was both apology and request.  
"It's okay," she whispered, her voice frayed velvet.  
And then he kissed her. But this time it was gentle, almost hesitant and chaste. Molly responded in kind, and she thought it ended way too soon when he slowly pulled away. He opened his mouth, but did not seem to find the words, so he closed it again. Yet Molly did not mind. She did not need words, because his eyes had always told her what his words would not. And that was enough for her.

**The End **

* * *

Under Pressure: Writer(s): Mario Johnson,  
Freddie Mercury, John Deacon, Brian May, David Bowie, Roger Taylor, Robert van  
Winkle, Floyd Brown Copyright: Aftershock Music, Emi Music Publishing Ltd., Ice  
Baby Music, Queen Music Limited, Tintoretto Music, Qpm Music Inc.


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